


Blame It On The Black Star

by merkuria



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Dom/sub, Impact Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merkuria/pseuds/merkuria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk is a sub in a consensual bdsm relationship. It is love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame It On The Black Star

**Author's Note:**

> A companion Spock POV fic now available: [My Body Is A Cage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/910932)

There are no chains, a part of his mind thinks, there are no chains and it makes everything that much harder.

But these are thoughts for later, for when he's back in his uniform, sitting in the captain's chair, a steady buzz of activity all around him. Right now this ship does not have a captain dressed in pretty hues, there's only a naked man on his knees, wrists bound, bending down under the steady swish of leather cutting through air and landing on skin.

The pain is a clear and precise presence and Jim finds himself holding on to it. The tears won't come for a while yet, there's not enough damage, they've only just started here. He's learned there's a certain order to these things, time carefully measured by the staccato bursts of his breath, the number of welts and the little dots of red, a silent rhythm that must not be hurried.

The tears always do come in the end; it's only a matter of time.

*

Jim stopped wondering why a long time ago. Now he mostly thinks of how and when, trying to tap into this thing that runs right beneath his skin, breaking his pulse and dictating the volume of white noise in the back of his head. He can't see it with his eyes even though he's tried, standing for hours in front of the mirror, searching for evidence. Somehow, this has also become a part of the ritual.

He can't see it, and yet it's almost palpable. Right before he leaves his quarters he searches for it with the tips of his fingers, tracing the skin convinced that this time he will succeed. He never does though, and after they're done the search continues, unsteady hands skipping raw places and pressing down where the skin was left pale, water washing the traces away and gathering in a coppery pool at his feet.

The gift he's been given is a kaleidoscope of reds, purples and dark blues, brilliantly scattered and ever-changing. In the bathroom he follows the patterns with slow movements and concentration, knowing that this is the only map he will ever be given. The answer lies hidden in the lines and dots on his skin and sometimes Jim thinks that if only he knew how to read the signs, if only he knew how to speak the language, he could control this need. Other times he knows that naming it won't change anything because the paths drawn on his body are not a direction but a record of what needs to be written over and over again.

In the end none of this matters. This thing, this want may have no name but it has a colour, and it's that brilliant flash of silver that hits him right before everything goes black.

*

What it all comes down to is how long he can go without.

It's late in the night and Jim finds himself thinking about welts. No, he hasn't got any now, but he is thinking. There's a small indentation in his left hip, barely pink and scabbed over, yet easily traceable under the fabric of his trousers. The night is quiet and for once the ship does not demand his attention, leaving his mind and hands free to wander as he's sitting in the chair, absentmindedly touching the spot, pressing down and worrying the healing flesh.

If asked, Jim would reply he walked into a table, "That's what you get for being clumsy", but it was a belt buckle, cutting in sharp and deep, and perfect. It was a good night too, very good.

Now it's a constant reminder, an echo and a good luck charm that he's both reluctant to see go and impatient to be rid of; if he has any marks left, he will not be given new ones.

There's a slight tension behind his eyes and Jim pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing with discomfort. He takes a couple of deep breaths but the air feels dry in his throat and his body is too loose, folding in on itself. He presses his arms into the edges of the chair a bit harder to feel the sharp lines, pushing muscles past their comfort zone into pain and forcing them to keep him perfectly upright. The ache is there but it's nothing like it should be.

He doesn't need to check the star date to know it's been over three weeks now.

*

The rules of the game are that nothing happens unless he asks for it. Jim is standing in the middle of the room, naked, but he feels warm, it is always so warm in here, his throat already used and ragged, sweat coating his skin. He runs the palms of his hands down the sides – an automatic movement that is supposed to steady him, but he's already past any pretence of self-control.

He wants, the need electric and running savage through him, robbing him of reason, robbing him of words but the one.

"Please."

"Say it."

"Please."

In his head, before, it was a whole litany of pleas and pleadings, the images unfolding with startling and obscene clarity – Jim always comes here knowing exactly what he wants. Then, as he undresses, the words peel away and the elaborate constructions collapse, leaving him without structure, with nothing to fall back on, exposed in a way he can barely stand.

"You need to tell me."

And yes, Jim needs to say what he wants because otherwise he's not going to get it, but it's too much, the words themselves too perfect and if they are spoken out loud someone might steal them, take them away from him and no, no, he can't risk that. So instead he takes the three steps to the drawer (that's three steps to the left, he knows exactly, four when he's on his knees). He opens it and the world narrows down a fraction more. There is a dull gleam of polished silver, deep warm brown and red of old leather, there is the shine of cool edges and the welcoming coils of rope.

Jim knows exactly what's inside that drawer. He put it there.

*

Sometimes, there is counting.

Jim counts because he's told to and because it stops the world from spinning, even if only for a second. There are five steps to the bed and one more for kneeling – this he needs to know for when he's blindfolded. There is an even number of breaths and an odd number of heartbeats between the blows.

"One."

The first one always feels too sudden, the body unprepared and resisting as heat floods his back, but soon all that blends into a seamless agony he's not even attempting to escape.

"Two."

"Three."

What people don't know is that, like this, Jim can stop time. He's saving up seconds, making them last, stretching them forever in his body while he bends the entire universe to his will with a single gasp. The numbers grow and he's being so good, keeping his arms up the way he's been told to, eyes wide open and wet because he knows that's expected, all this an exquisite game of give and take and Jim feels like he's cheating because he gets everything.

He's the boy who stole the sun. Right here, right now he's being given all the love in the universe and he's not sharing it with anyone.

"Ten."

*

There is pain. It comes in colours, red, black and white, crawling and stripping him further and further, deep down to the bones, going inside where the flesh yields and surrenders. He cries and he begs, and he submits to it all, chunks of the outside world falling away, all ornaments taken away and burnt to ashes until Jim feels distilled down to what he's supposed to be.

Then there's the pleasure. He can't help but think how inadequate the word is, how incapable of describing the blinding thrill that roars through his body, destroying everything in its path and cutting his thoughts with razor-sharp precision.

Tonight he was standing and he was kneeling, and now he's pushed down, face in the pillow and wrists gripped tight above his head. Jim is being held, a strong arm around his chest and even stronger legs pushing his apart. He's done asking and he's done begging, the sound of his ruined throat still ringing in his ears, the words winding them both higher and higher. He's gulping air in broken gasps, waiting out the last seconds before he's breached, a relentless push and pull, everything sliding perfectly into place.

And then he's asking again, whispering and sobbing because there's a generous mouth next to his. "Please. Please, please, let me, let me, yes, oh God, please, yes." He's not even sure what he's asking for but it happens anyway, one hand a steely weight between his shoulders and the other travelling lower, the rhythm increasing, impossibly, until he hears it.

"Now."

Jim welcomes the blinding wave of silver with a hoarse cry, because he's earned this and now there are stars exploding for him, the entire universe raining down on his body and this can only last so long before he too goes ablaze.

*  
Always, there is waiting.

Jim comes back bruised from a mission, his cheeks a red and purple mess, left eye black and blood everywhere, knuckles scraped raw. He needs medical attention, officers need their orders, there are shouts and rushing all around him while Jim focuses on getting the ship away from there now now now, the weight of it all heavy on his shoulders. The lives of five hundred men and women are in his hands and he knows where his duty lies. But what he also knows is that tonight – in a few hours when all this is over – they can do the face too.

He feels the moment as if it were palpable, the air thick around him, slowing down his movements. This is where I say no, Jim sometimes thinks, this is where I laugh and turn away. Only he never does and never could, not anymore, never after the first time. He crosses the room, stopping an arm's distance away.

"Do it."

There is a rapid movement and a hard hand landing on his cheek, sending Jim's body a cross-wired message of the glorious pleasure to come. Some distant part of his mind is telling him that all this is wrong but the voice vanishes with the second blow, just as measured and loving. A solitary drop of blood falls from his lips and Jim watches it splash on the floor. More, he thinks, there's going to be more. He looks up, smiling, and says it.

"More."


End file.
